


Connection Points

by irisbleufic



Series: Playing for Keeps [8]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Actually Private Jet Sex But Whatever, Aftermath, Airplane Sex, Alliances, Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Blackmail, Canon Jewish Character, Don’t copy to another site, Established Relationship, Events of a Single Week, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Flirting, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Heroes to Villains, Humor, Interconnectedness, Jewish Character, M/M, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Mile High Club, Other, POV Alternating, POV Bruce Wayne, References to Canon, Season/Series 05, Slice of Life, The Rogues (DCU) As Family, Travel, Unconventional Families, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-15 15:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “I raised the wrong ghosts, and then, by the time I raised the right one, it was almost too late.”Bruce brushed his fingertips along Jeremiah’s right cheekbone, tracing the memory of a bruise.“Raising that ghost cost you too much,” he said quietly, “and it’s my fault you went and did it.”“That’s one way of seeing it,” Jeremiah replied, “whereas I believe the way out was through.”





	1. Sunday

Jeremiah decided that dining at the side-table in the Bombardier’s bedroom suite was preferable to dining in their seats like they’d done before. While he couldn’t look out a window, the lighting was cozy, and the meal Bruce had requested for their return trip was sublime.

On finishing dessert, Bruce reached for the wine to refill their glasses, but Jeremiah stayed him.

“Have the crew clear it away,” he said, catching Bruce’s wrist. “I don’t want us drunk for this.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows, withdrew his hand, and hit the contact button. “You were serious?”

“About wanting to—” Jeremiah bit his tongue as the steward breezed in, waiting until he’d left with the wine and their dinner trays “—have you onboard our private jet? Yes.”

Looking fetchingly keen on the prospect, Bruce got up. He went and closed the folding barrier between the main cabin and the entertainment suite, and then closed the one between the entertainment suite and the bedroom on his way back.

“I’ll let them know we want privacy,” he said, hastily opening and typing a text. “How long?”

“The remainder of the flight?” Jeremiah replied, convinced that ought to have been obvious.

“That’s about six hours,” Bruce said, dropping his phone on the table. “I’m agreeing on the condition we get at least _some_ sleep.”

Jeremiah unpocketed his phone and made an elaborate show of depositing it next to Bruce’s.

“Fortunately, I find your stuffy technology ban charming,” he replied, and stepped close to him.

Bruce made a sharp, pleased sound as Jeremiah pinned him to the sliver of wall next to the bed.

“Just so you know, it…” He tightened his grasp on Jeremiah’s hips. “It doesn’t apply to the collection of...gadgets we’re accruing.”

“If it did, I’d be concerned,” Jeremiah said. He kissed an especially tender spot on the right side of Bruce’s neck, using his teeth to elicit a stronger reaction. “How else would I get you to—” 

Taking hold of Jeremiah’s shoulders just as he began to sink to his knees, Bruce shook his head.

“You got to do that to me near a historical site you admire, so I’m calling dibs on doing it to you at forty thousand feet,” Bruce said, steering Jeremiah backward until he collapsed on the bed. “Relax. It’ll still tick Mile-High Club off your bucket list.”

“I wanted to see if vibrations in the wall made a difference,” Jeremiah said, licking his lips as Bruce knelt in front of him, “ _but_ —never mind.” He bent forward so Bruce could kiss him easily while he unbuttoned Jeremiah’s waistcoat and untucked his shirt.

“Maybe in a while,” Bruce said, taking his time unfastening Jeremiah’s trousers. “Lie back.”

“Don’t think I will,” said Jeremiah, already strained, running his thumbs along Bruce’s jaw on either side while Bruce worked one hand inside Jeremiah’s underwear and unfastened his black jeans with the other. “The view from here’s…arresting.”

“Yeah, use those words while you can,” Bruce said, resting his head against Jeremiah’s shoulder while he concentrated on stroking them both. “Somebody’s wet,” he whispered, slicking his thumb across Jeremiah’s slit before drawing him out. “Want me to get the ring?”

“No,” Jeremiah gasped, squeezing his eyes shut at how exquisite his touch felt. “ _Bruce_.”

“I’ll work fast, then,” Bruce said with a hint of laughter, hands coming to rest on Jeremiah’s thighs as he bent to take Jeremiah in his mouth.

Dazedly opening his eyes, Jeremiah carded his fingers through Bruce’s hair—over and over, his hands trembling as Bruce took him deeper by degrees. He couldn’t move much, not if he wanted to remain upright, but Bruce understood the change in his breathing well enough to ease off.

“Good?” he asked, taking a moment to just touch Jeremiah while he pressed an open-mouthed kiss against his belly. “Too much?”

“More,” Jeremiah managed, voice so tight he was amazed it didn’t break. “Touch yourself.”

Bruce shifted closer so he could wrap one arm around Jeremiah’s waist. He brushed a kiss against the side of Jeremiah’s cock before taking him in again, working himself erratically with his free hand. He winced approvingly as Jeremiah’s fingers tightened in his hair.

Jeremiah fought against the impulse to close his eyes again, but it took every shred of his concentration to hold off while Bruce caught up.

“Want you to come,” he hissed, “want you to get off on sucking me dry, I _want_ you.”

Bruce pulled off him and buried his face against Jeremiah’s chest, breathing harshly as Jeremiah wrapped an arm around him. He tugged at Jeremiah’s waistcoat, finally straightening up just enough to let Jeremiah take over stroking him.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce whimpered, swallowing what would’ve otherwise been a shout, “fuck, I’m…”

Jeremiah didn’t mind being knocked backward onto the mattress, didn’t mind when Bruce climbed onto him and angled his hips so that he could jerk them both. After about a minute, he eased Bruce’s hand away, clutched him tighter, and kissed him until he came.

That was all Jeremiah needed, all he’d ever need to follow—shaking with Bruce’s pleasure as much as his own, Bruce’s name ragged on his lips.

Even weak and sated, Bruce moved against Jeremiah until he pitched to the edge again.

“I can’t…” Jeremiah dug his toes into Bruce’s calf, tensing. “No, no, _wait_ , it’s...”

“You’re so close,” Bruce coaxed, kissing Jeremiah’s temple. “Come on, I know you’re—”

Jeremiah couldn’t bring himself to feel ashamed at how he sounded this time, not with Bruce murmuring against his ear and petting his hair.

Bruce held him for a long time afterward, pressing soft, lazy kisses against Jeremiah’s mouth.

“These clothes are a loss,” Jeremiah rasped, his voice not inclined to cooperate. He yawned.

“That’s what in-flight baggage access is for,” Bruce said, resting his cheek against Jeremiah’s.

Jeremiah dragged his fingers down Bruce’s shirt-covered spine, impressed at the damp fabric.

“Don’t go telling me that, dear heart,” he replied. “I’ll want to ruin everything we packed.”


	2. Monday

Bruce looked up from reviewing the latest sheaf of Docklands and Narrows building contracts when the security desk downstairs rang. He picked up the phone, glad of an interruption.

“Dr. Thompkins and Mr. Pennyworth are here to see you, Mr. Wayne. They don’t have—”

“No, they don’t have an appointment,” Bruce said, curtly apologetic. “Send them up anyway.”

Bruce spent the ten minutes that it took them to reach his floor of Wayne Tower shuffling the contracts back into their folders. Most were labeled in Jeremiah’s angular, elegant handwriting.

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” Alfred remarked when Bruce buzzed the two of them in.

“Seeing as we got back late last night,” Bruce said, rising to come around and greet them on the opposite side of his desk, “yes. Playing catch-up. Lee, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

Lee accepted Bruce’s handshake. “You’re looking well. I haven’t been to Paris in a decade.”

“I suppose you popped in to see how Notre-Dame’s come on since the fire?” Alfred ventured.

Bruce nodded, wondering if the question was meant to lead him toward mentioning Jeremiah.

“They’ve spared no detail in reconstruction,” he agreed. “Hard to believe it’s been two years.”

“Sure is,” Lee sighed, folding her arms as she went to look out the window. “Hard to believe it’s been two years since we started rebuilding here.”

Alfred looked like he expected further reply, even as he joined Bruce in leaning against the desk.

“Don’t think this is a mere social call,” he continued, making sure Lee was preoccupied. “What did you think you were doing, dropping everything to run off like that?”

Faintly offended, Bruce gave him a perplexed look that was designed to offer benefit of doubt.

“I promised Jeremiah we’d go once things calmed down,” he said slowly. “Also, we just…”

The instant Alfred’s perplexity began to shift into something perturbed was the moment in which Bruce realized he’d flat-out forgotten to _tell_ him. Calling it oversight was an understatement.

“Well, go on,” Alfred prompted, folding his arms in an uncanny mirror of Lee. “You just what?”

Bruce absently rubbed at his scarred cheek, staring over his shoulder at Lee. “Got married.”

As Lee turned, her expression was somewhere between dismay and relief. “Congratulations?”

Alfred’s expression, when Bruce finally turned back to him, was somewhat less forgiving.

“On the one hand, nice to know you didn’t cancel those meetings on us for a lark,” he said flippantly. “On the other, you could’ve at least sent a bloody announcement.”

“You’re right,” Bruce said, staring at the floor until his flare of temper had passed. “I’m sorry.”

Looking more irritated than anything else, Lee came back to join them. “Does the press know?”

“No,” Bruce said. “I don’t think so. None of the Paris tabloids seemed to pick up on…” He held his left hand out to her, shrugging. “We left forty-eight hours later, no chance for anyone on this side of the Atlantic to notice.”

“At least you had the sense not to use anything from the vaults,” Alfred muttered, still stung.

Bruce gave him a withering glance, tapping the edge of the desk. “And if I had, what then?”

“I’d have given you a right talking-to, is what,” Alfred said, nonetheless conceding defeat.

“He didn’t ask for any such thing,” Bruce replied. “I know that probably comes as a shock.”

Lee huffed. “I swear to God I’m going to go find more pleasant company if you two don’t—”

Bruce’s door swung open in the wake of Jeremiah’s badge admitting him with a _BEEP_.

Jeremiah froze on the threshold, glancing from Bruce to Lee to Alfred, and back to Bruce again.

“This is quite the reunion,” he said before Bruce could intervene. “Should I come back later?”

“Mr. Valeska,” Lee said, less awkwardly than Bruce would’ve expected. “It’s been a while.”

“It’s Wayne now,” Jeremiah said with a measure of aloofness, relieved that Bruce had recovered enough to push off the desk and go to him. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Urging Jeremiah inside, Bruce closed the door behind him. “They’ve come to ask about the trip,” he said evenly, giving Alfred a hard look over Jeremiah’s shoulder, “and reschedule those meetings we had to cancel.”

Jeremiah tilted his head toward Bruce, his expression fractionally less than pleased. “Is that so?”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Bruce said, quiet and imploring, tucking the word behind his teeth. “Yes, it is.”

Likely drawing on his elation from earlier, when they’d heard that his name-change paperwork had gone through, Jeremiah switched to a smile. He kissed Bruce and turned to their guests.

“I’m sure Bruce has already bored you with his version of our holiday,” Jeremiah said brightly.

Alfred didn’t even attempt pleasantries. “I suppose he bored _you_ with anecdotes of trips past?”

Jeremiah pulled a face that, to anyone who knew better, might pass for genuinely wounded.

“Forgive me if I’d rather listen to Bruce’s version of family reminiscences than yours.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you,” Alfred parried with thinly-veiled bitterness.

At a loss for how to salvage the exchange, Bruce took Jeremiah’s hand and led him around the desk. Urging him to sit, Bruce kissed his cheek and then whispered in his ear.

“You weren’t as out of line as you could’ve been, but to Alfred? That was a slap in the face.”

“So much for letting bygones be bygones,” Jeremiah hissed back. “He’s a harder sell than—”

Bruce kissed him on the mouth this time, as much to reassure him as to keep him from alluding to their unfortunate pre-reunification encounter with Selina and Zsasz. He sighed.

“Would you go over the bottom two contracts with Dr. Thompkins, please? They’re relevant.”

“Since you have pressing business,” Jeremiah said, releasing Bruce, “ _sure_. Shall we?”

Lee nodded, relieved. She joined Jeremiah even as Bruce made his way back to where Alfred was standing with hands clenched at his sides.

“I won’t make a scene,” Bruce said, indicating that Alfred should follow him out. “Let’s talk.”


	3. Tuesday

“You’re telling me,” Jeremiah said, removing the pocket-size flashlight from between his teeth, “that neither you, _nor_ Oswald has asked Olga to look into upgrading this house’s wiring?” He shut the fuse-box. “I can solve it with a generator, of course.”

Edward glanced sidelong at Martín, who was excitedly signing _Yes! Can I help you?_

“If it’d mean an end to the blackouts? Please,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind observing, either.”

 _Ed_ , Martín prompted, still looking hopefully to Jeremiah, _we should ask Dad first._

As if on cue, the racket that burst out upstairs prominently featured Oswald’s shrill screeching.

“Oh dear,” Edward sighed when a second recognizable voice joined in. “That’s Victor Zsasz.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Jeremiah ventured, taking Martín’s anxiously offered left hand even as the boy latched onto Edward with his right. “Do I even want to know?”

Edward sucked in his breath and led them up the stairs. He was unable to dislodge Martín’s grasp on either of them to make the trip easier.

Jeremiah, taking up the rear, did his best to steady an increasingly nervous Martín. He had a sneaking suspicion he would regret being there.

As they emerged into the kitchen, Oswald spun to face all three of them in livid consternation.

Behind him, leaning against the counter with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, Zsasz waved.

“I was just asking Victor,” Oswald began, struggling to contain his temper, “since _when_ he agrees to work for the sum of a junior-high student’s weekly allowance?”

“I was _bored_ , okay?” Zsasz burst out, gesturing wildly with the spoon. “Jeez. Do you realize how thin on the ground contracts have been?”

Jeremiah attempted to school his expression, but it was no use. He’d underestimated the extent of the situation, and his shock was on display.

Martín released Edward and stuck close to Jeremiah’s side, stubbornly glaring at Oswald.

 _Nobody else was going to do anything about it_ , he signed. _What if that happened to you and Ed next time you’re at the airport?_

“Martín,” Edward said, bending to the boy’s level, “we talked about this, didn’t we? Jeremiah alerted me to the fact a text of yours indicated certain…intentions toward an unidentified TSA agent. I know for a fact Jeremiah gave you neither specifics of their appearance, nor any indication of whereabouts. You were supposed to let it go.”

 _You and Dad never let it go_ , Martín signed viciously. _You protect people you love_.

Stepping back from Edward and Martín, Jeremiah turned aside and tried to collect his thoughts. He hadn’t thought the boy would respond the way he had to the frustrated anecdote at time of texting, let alone succeed in researching the nameless agent’s identity and take out a hit.

“How in the world,” Oswald said, breaking into near-tearful, furious concern as he approached and took hold of Martín’s shoulders, “did you find out who it was? As far as I’m aware, your—” he graced Jeremiah with a reproachful glance “—handyman uncle here didn’t even know!”

 _You think I can’t do what Ed does?_ Martín retorted. _That I can’t follow easy leads?_

“Nobody’s debating what you can or can’t do,” said Jeremiah, before he could stop himself. “This is about your safety, in which everyone present has stock. I was wrong to vent my frustrations like that. I was tired. Bruce had been ill since we arrived. I didn’t think.”

Martín turned to Jeremiah, biting his lip as he signed. _You and Bruce were too far away to do anything about it. I thought maybe…_ He huffed. _Zsasz made it look random._

“Besides, with a little help from Uncle Bruce _and_ Goth Dad, can’t Green Dad here just hand-wave the GCPD into looking the other way?” Zsasz pointed out. “That’s assuming anyone cares. It’s been two weeks. Case closed.”

“Not so closed I didn’t find out about it,” Oswald snapped, and then returned his focus to Martín and Edward. “You think you’re the only ones in this family who can play detective?”

Jeremiah watched Martín contritely, but angrily put his foot down. _I won’t do it again!_

“Not without asking, anyway,” Edward appealed to Oswald, using a tactic Jeremiah knew well. “I want him to have the skills necessary for survival in this city, don’t you?”

Oswald stared at Jeremiah, his expression indecipherable. He looked as if he didn’t know whether he needed to scold Jeremiah or ask him to rejoin the dubious reinforcement bandwagon.

“It’s at your fathers’ discretion,” Jeremiah said tentatively, “ _but_ —guidance would be wise.”

“This is super messed-up,” Zsasz said, as if to remind them he was there. “Can I go now?”

“No,” Oswald raged, whirling on him, “you may _not_! The last thing I need is you at such a loose end you’ll work for all comers. Either you come back to work for me full-time, or I make your life a living hell—and possibly even end it. Are we clear?”

Bruce emerged in the doorway, as if he’d been in the Van Dahl Estate’s shadows all along.

“Olga and I heard a fuss,” he said gravely, beckoning Jeremiah to him. “What’s going on?”

“While you were discussing Olga’s weekend duty roster at Wayne Manor,” Edward volunteered, “Oswald decided to confront Victor and Martín over a dead TSA agent. You can guess the rest.”

Jeremiah felt a flood of relief as Bruce touched his shoulder in alarmed, wordless concern.

“What’s done is done,” Jeremiah said. “I accept my indirect part in it. Oswald, my apologies.”

 _You didn’t do anything_ , Martín signed. _I’m thirteen fucking years old. I decided._

“Language,” Edward said testily, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Oswald, please. If the blame belongs to anyone, it’s mine. I didn’t make myself clear enough when I talked to him.”

Bruce was studying the boy with a mix of guilty recognition and what Jeremiah knew was pride.

“Drop it,” he said in a tone that gave Jeremiah nostalgic chills. “All of you. I’ll speak to Jim.”


	4. Wednesday

Bruce took the glass dropper-bottle out of Ivy’s hand, holding its rusty, purplish brown contents up to the sunlight. He opened and sniffed it, instantly screwing the lid back in place.

“It’s strong,” he said in slight surprise. “What kind of preservative did you use for this tincture?”

“One-ninety proof cane alcohol,” Ivy said. “Chugging that bottle would be like taking two shots.”

“I assume that’s not how you use it,” said Bruce, intrigued by its unusual shade. “The coloring—”

“Natural,” Ivy replied, side-stepping to one of her long tables of seedlings. She pulled a crate from beneath it and pulled out a glass cider jug full of the same substance. “The plant does it.”

Jeremiah, who’d been listening silently in spite of the fact he was implicated, wandered back from his examination of the ghost pipes growing in the tomatoes’ shade. He took the bottle when Bruce offered it to him, unscrewing the cap. He didn’t react as strongly.

“So I dilute this in water,” he said, more to himself than as a question for Ivy. “How much?”

“Usually, I’d advise a drop or two,” said Ivy, “but you have high tolerance for what you ingest.”

“That would mean…” Jeremiah closed and pocketed it. “What? Several drops? Half a dozen?”

“Try a dropper-full in water or tea every night before bed,” Ivy said, pushing her reading glasses up into her hair before putting away the crate. “Most sources say it helps anxiety, insomnia, migraines, nerve pain, agitation…”

Bruce had enough sense not to ask if it also helped with hypersensitivity to light, sound, and sensation. He knew that Jeremiah had come to consider those aspects of his transformation more helpful than harmful. That left a different question hanging.

“Side-effects,” Jeremiah said, beating Bruce to the punch. “Are there any? If so, how severe?”

“You might have some hella weird dreams, but I know you get those anyway,” Ivy replied, dropping back to a crouch as both dogs came bounding into the greenhouse with Harley at their heels. “Ooh, sweeties! Come _here_!”

Ivy’s Dalmatian, Phin, knocked her into a sitting position and put both paws on Ivy’s knees.

Harley’s Morkie, Leta, barked and filled the space Phin had left in Ivy’s lap. While Phin happily licked Ivy’s face, Leta scampered back out from between them and went to Bruce.

In faint disgust, Jeremiah took a step back while Bruce crouched to rub behind Leta’s ears.

“You never were a dog person, huh,” Harley said, smirking at him as she looped both leashes over a nearby coat-rack full of hanging supplies. “Bad experience as a kid?”

“Good girl,” Bruce murmured in spite of himself, rubbing his cheek against Leta’s soft head before letting her run to Harley. “I never had a pet.”

“Snakes are a different animal,” said Jeremiah, expressionless, “both literally and figuratively.”

Brushing off his fingers, Bruce got to his feet. He couldn’t do much about the fact that Jeremiah would probably recoil from him, nose wrinkled, until he’d washed his hands.

“We don’t have to talk about that,” Bruce reassured him, reaching for Jeremiah’s hand anyway.

“Let’s not,” Jeremiah said, appearing to debate the benefits and drawbacks before accepting it.

“Oh,” Harley said, scooping a happily-panting Leta up in her arms. “Yeah, touchy. My bad.”

Meanwhile, Ivy had let Phin knock her flat on her back and had the dog all but on top of her.

“Who wants some music?” she asked breathlessly, laughing as Phin snuffled her hair. “We brought the record player out here since the weather’s nice. Hey, babe, go put on the—”

“One step ahead of ya,” Harley said, carrying a content, docile Leta against her hip. She went over to the transitional space between patio and greenhouse, quick to drop the needle.

Amazed to recognize the opening strains, Bruce realized he hadn’t heard the song—or even the vocalist—since he was small. Vera Lynn had been one of his parents’ particular favorites.

 _It had to be you,_  
_it had to be you_  
_I wandered around,_  
_and finally found_  
_that somebody who_

Ivy was on her feet in a flash, tapping her shoulders. Phin jumped up and put her paws there, patient while Ivy danced her in a slow circle.

“I hardly ever get a dance these days,” Harley said, rolling her eyes as she gathered Leta to her chest and swayed. “Phinny’s taken my place.”

 _Could make me be true,_  
_could make me feel blue_  
_and even be glad_  
_just to be sad_  
_thinking of you_

One glance at Jeremiah, wide-eyed and lost in thought, told Bruce the song had resonated with whatever past memories had been invoked by their talk of childhood pets. Jeremiah squeezed Bruce’s fingers, several urgent repetitions.

“Are you all right?” Bruce asked softly, taking Jeremiah’s other hand, tugging him even closer.

“Cicero let my mother borrow this record, and she never gave it back,” Jeremiah replied. “She taught me to dance. I took it when I left. It’s in the valise we fetched that day from the storage cellar near what was left of my bunker—with the letters.”

“Want to?” Bruce asked, setting Jeremiah’s right hand on his shoulder. “Or we could go ho—”

Abruptly, Jeremiah pulled Bruce to him, nodding against Bruce’s temple. “Of course I want to.”

 _Some others I’ve seen_  
_might never be mean,_  
_might never be cross,_  
_or try to be boss_  
_but they wouldn't do_

“Aw, Ives, look at ’em,” Harley cooed, but Bruce focused on Jeremiah instead of looking at her.

“Regular pair of saps,” Ivy said, still shuffling around with Phin as her partner. “I should know.”

 _For nobody else_  
_gave me a thrill;_  
_with all your faults,_  
_I love you still_

 _It had to be you,_  
_wonderful you,_  
_it had to be you_

“We don’t have a song yet,” Jeremiah sighed in Bruce’s ear, “ _but_ —I think this might be the one.”

“I’ll second the motion,” Bruce said, grinning at Ivy over Jeremiah’s shoulder, “if you’ll sustain it.”


	5. Thursday

The Sirens on a Thursday night was too loud for Jeremiah’s taste, but by the weekend it was worse. He wasn’t fond of the unspoken social obligations he’d married into, but he humored Bruce’s insistence that they be seen out and about.

Jeremiah had learned to enjoy this part in particular, the hush that fell every time they entered a crowded room. Not even the music’s weird, synthesized beat could mask it. Everyone pretended not to stare as they made their way to the bar.

Bruce pulled out a stool for Jeremiah, setting a hand at the small of his back as he took a seat.

“Restroom,” he murmured in Jeremiah’s ear, kissing just below it. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Barbara turned from the register and approached Jeremiah with a jaded, but calculating smile.

“Well, hello there, boys,” she said, her eyes following Bruce to the back. “Nice to know we’re the most exclusive club in town as long as Ozzie’s too busy governing and parenting to make the Iceberg worth your while.”

“Ms. Kean,” Jeremiah said, smiling in kind. “An English Rose and an Old Fashioned, please.”

“Ooh,” Barbara said, reaching for the Hendrick’s. “Girly drink, manly drink. Who gets which?”

“Don’t blink,” replied Jeremiah, winking, “and you might see us swap before the night’s out.”

“Not to speak ill of the dead,” Barbara said, splashing grenadine into the gin, “but you’re the funny one.” She waited for a reaction, adding vermouth, apricot brandy, and lemon juice to the shaker when none came. “Rumor has it you and Bruce just got back from Paris.”

Jeremiah inclined his head, removing his hat, watching her shake the cocktail to completion.

“We did,” he conceded, recognizing the utility of playing along. He tugged off his gloves.

Barbara glanced down at his hands, which were stark against the bar’s smooth black surface.

“I guess that explains why the rumor’s aren’t flying,” she said, eyeing his gloves and his wedding band in turn before dropping two maraschino cherries in a glass. “Removing those in here might not be such a great idea if you don’t want folks to talk.”

“On the contrary,” Jeremiah said, watching her pour the English Rose, “we’re here to spread the word. Discreetly. It won’t come as a surprise.”

“Not after those racy Louvre photos,” Barbara agreed, getting started on the Old Fashioned.

Bruce announced his return with a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder as he hauled out the adjacent stool and swung onto it. He removed his blazer.

“Just what I wanted,” Bruce said, reaching for the English rose. He took a sip and kissed Jeremiah lingeringly enough to give him a taste. “Thanks.”

“That’s not what I was expecting,” Barbara said, glancing up from mixing Jeremiah’s drink, “but what do I know? Vive la versatilité.”

“Somehow, I doubt that _long live fickleness_ is what you were aiming for,” Jeremiah informed her, accepting the Old Fashioned as she handed it over. “Variété de talents. That’s the proper idiom.”

“English _and_ French,” Barbara said slyly to Bruce. “Get you a man who can do both.”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes and drank deeply, already tired of the remarks on his private life.

Bruce rubbed his back, already half-finished with his cocktail. “How’s business?” he asked.

“Oh, you know,” Barbara said, making a money-gesture to indicate she needed Bruce’s card to open their tab. “There’s business, and then there’s _business_. The former’s booming, but the latter?” She snatched the plastic as he offered it. “Not so much.”

“Give it time,” Bruce said, considering Jeremiah’s bare hands before removing his own gloves.

“My my,” Barbara said, mock-brushing her finger across Bruce’s ring. “It even matches.” She tilted her head as Bruce unbuttoned his collar, and then squinted at Jeremiah’s throat. “Huh.”

Jeremiah took stock of where his chain presently sat. From the feel of things, it was visible.

Fortunately, Bruce had also taken notice. He pulled his pendant out into the open for all of ten seconds, showing Barbara one side, and then the other before concealing it again.

“We remember your willingness to meet us halfway,” he said. “Your collegiality in hardship.”

Barbara’s smile vanished for all of thirty seconds, at which point it resurfaced as she beckoned to someone behind Bruce’s and Jeremiah’s backs.

Tabitha gave Bruce and Jeremiah a wide berth as she walked around to the end of the bar in order to join Barbara behind it. She leaned into Barbara, kissed her on the lips, and whispered something.

Jeremiah met Bruce’s eyes and subtly shook his head. Whatever she’d said, he hadn’t caught it.

“Congratulate the newlyweds?” Barbara suggested, taking hold of Tabitha’s chin, turning her face toward them. “That’s what Paris was all about.”

“Must be nice to get away whenever you want,” said Tabitha, unsmiling. “I’m happy for you.”

Unable to swallow his fury at the insult—the sheer _disrespect_ to Bruce—Jeremiah tensed.

Bruce grabbed Jeremiah’s free hand beneath the bar and held it, squeezing almost unbearably.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Galavan,” he said, but there was a poisonous undertone to his charm.

“Yes,” Jeremiah agreed, speaking into his glass instead of to Tabitha. “Thanks are in order.”

Releasing Jeremiah’s hand, Bruce slid his arm around Jeremiah’s waist. “How have you been?”

“Between Barb, the bar, and everything else,” Tabitha said coolly, “I have my work cut out.”

“Yeah, that’s about right,” said the second-to-last voice in the world that Jeremiah wanted to hear. “I guess I’m a handful, or whatever?” Its owner clapped him on the shoulder. “Wow, look at you guys. All cleaned up—just like the city, huh?”

Jeremiah shoved Selina’s hand off his shoulder with such force that even Bruce was startled.

“Pardon,” he said icily, turning to stare her down. “Defensive reflexes don’t fade overnight.”

“Selina,” said Bruce, his veneer of politeness far from convincing. “Kind of you to drop by.”

Selina shook her head with a patronizing smirk. She glared at Barbara as she turned to go.


	6. Friday

When the knock sounded at Bruce’s office door, he set aside the Board policies he’d been reviewing and buzzed the arrival in. He’d been anticipating this visit all week.

“Commissioner,” Bruce greeted, rising as Jim approached his desk. “Please have a seat.”

“Bruce,” Jim said, having refused to adopt formalities in the year and change they’d been collaborating since reunification. “Got your message Tuesday. Sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”

Bruce shook his head and sat back down, indicating that Jim should take the chair opposite him.

“I’m the one who should be apologizing. I canceled our monthly meeting on very short notice.”

Jim shrugged indifferently. “You have business interests abroad. I understand those come first.”

“There’s no need to let me save face,” Bruce said. “I’m sure you know the trip was personal.”

Nodding, Jim contemplated a two-week-old copy of the _Daily Grind_ on Bruce’s desk.

“Harv told me about the photo set,” he admitted. “Someone at the bar was talking about it.”

“It was a matter of time,” Bruce replied. “We haven’t gone to the trouble of an official statement, but I’m sure our presence at the Sirens last night will put rumors to rest.”

“From the look of things, those rumors are true,” Jim said, nodding at Bruce’s ringed left hand.

“Just like I said,” Bruce agreed, gauging Jim’s mood. “We were ready for everyone to know.”

“Did you have something specific you wanted to discuss this month, or is this a waste of time?”

“Nothing specific,” Bruce said, measuring his response. “You would’ve turned up eventually, but I decided to speed things along.”

Jim rubbed the side of his face, already unhappy. “Does this have anything to do with that TSA agent from Gotham International who was shot?”

Bruce folded his hands, tilting his head in an attitude of quizzical concern. “Why would it?”

“You fool a lot of people,” Jim said tautly, leaning forward, “but you sure as hell don’t fool me.”

“I’m sure your team handled the investigation with utmost care,” Bruce said. “What did they find?”

“Mugged and murdered a few blocks from home. Signs of a struggle consistent, the usual.”

Leaning forward in kind, Bruce slid a nearby folder in Jim’s direction. It was labeled _FROM VALE, V._ in Jeremiah’s handwriting. A dozen photos spilled from it, showing Jim, armed and dressed in bounty-hunter black, throughout various stages of closing in on a kill. 

Jim flipped the folder open, and then attempted to put the photographs in some semblance of order. His distressed micro-expressions as he studied them were telling.

“There are four sets of these, each documenting pursuit of a different Indian Hill escapee,” said Bruce. “Vale was happy to share them in exchange for that interview Jeremiah and I gave a while back. I’m sure you never knew the full extent of her interest in you at the time, or even the lengths to which she, with the help of an exceptionally determined private investigator, went to document a number of your hunts.” He locked eyes with Jim. “Out of six they photographed, four ended in fatalities. Your claim of having delivered every capture alive doesn’t hold up.”

“Even if you agree to keep these out of the public eye in exchange for a favor,” Jim said tonelessly, “what more can I do for you that I haven’t already done? I’ve been in your pocket since the moment you gave me Martín Cobblepot and Gotham’s reconstruction in exchange for…” Jim’s gaze was candid. “Was it worth turning your back on us? Was _he_ worth turning—”

“If a mugging is what the new forensics crew found,” Bruce cut in warningly, “then that’s that.”

Jim nodded, clenching his jaw in surrender. “Even if Harper and Fox haven’t been around the block enough times to recognize what’s in front of them, I know Zsasz’s work when I see it.”

“Then you’ll go on knowing what you know, I’ll go on knowing what I know,” Bruce said, taking back the folder and its precarious contents, “and neither of us will say a word.”

Just then, the access-control pad outside Bruce’s door beeped. Jeremiah strode in with several books and folders clutched to his chest, coming to a standstill alongside Bruce’s desk.

“Your calendar didn’t show any appointments for the next hour,” he said calmly. “Gordon.”

“Mr. Valeska,” Jim said in curt acknowledgment, getting to his feet. “I was on my way out.”

“Wayne,” Jeremiah corrected, strain only evident in the slight widening of his eyes. He set his load down on Jim’s former chair, and then seated himself on the edge of the desk at Bruce’s elbow. “I’m telling you, this is why we need to issue a press release.”

Bruce watched Jeremiah take note of the photos’ folder, setting a reassuring hand on his knee.

“I see your point,” he said, realizing Jim had paused mid-departure. “I’ll call the _Gazette_.”

“Wasn’t the Commissioner just leaving?” Jeremiah asked, re-situating Bruce’s hand on his thigh.

“Guess that answers my question,” Jim said, turning his back as he opened the door and exited.

Bruce stroked the spot where Jeremiah had left his hand, looking up at him in wistful apology.

“I should’ve called this morning,” he said. “Letting the news spread gradually is no help to you.”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Jeremiah said, caressing Bruce’s cheek. “What matters is that I know I’m yours, _but_ —it’d save me a lot of breath if everyone else knew, too.”

Tightening his grasp on Jeremiah’s thigh, Bruce peered over the desk at the books he’d brought.

“Something tells me you intended for this to be a working lunch,” he said, faintly disappointed.

Jeremiah nudged at the arm of Bruce’s chair until he’d moved enough to let Jeremiah insinuate himself between Bruce and the desk. Leaning forward, he put both hands on Bruce’s face and kissed him soundly.

Bruce slid his arms around Jeremiah’s waist, scooting his chair closer. “I’m listening.”

“I think our adherence to propriety during business hours is overrated,” Jeremiah said.


	7. Saturday

Jeremiah panted into the pile of pillows, loosening his cramped grasp on the headboard’s lowest rung. He twisted from his side onto his belly, closing his eyes in sated exhaustion.

Bruce collapsed against Jeremiah’s back, never as heavy as he should be, nuzzling close.

“So that’s everything you wanted to do yesterday at the office,” Jeremiah said, “but couldn’t?”

“No,” said Bruce, nosing his way into curve of Jeremiah’s neck. “I did exactly what I wanted.”

“At the office, or…” Jeremiah yawned, too wrung-out to properly tease. “When don’t you.”

Bruce was quiet for a while, to the point that Jeremiah dozed off in spite of the damp sheets. He hadn’t registered Bruce getting out of bed, half-waking to Bruce scrubbing him off and then shoving at him until he rolled over to the dry side of the mattress.

“Go back to sleep,” Bruce whispered, tugging the duvet over him. “Olga’s here. I’ll let her in.”

The next time Jeremiah opened his eyes, he was alone. He sat up, disoriented. The quality of light through the curtains had changed, his only clue that more than an hour had passed.

Jeremiah got out of bed and threw on the first pair of pajama bottoms and robe he could find. The former was his, but the latter belonged to Bruce. He went downstairs barefoot, willing to risk any measure of disapproval from Olga as long as he located Bruce.

The kitchen was ominously empty, so he decided that the library was his most logical next step.

When he pushed through the door, Olga turned brusquely from dusting the bookshelves’ edges.

“Bruce said he was going to let you in,” Jeremiah blurted, too scattered for decorum. “Where—”

“For a while, he was reading,” Olga said, “but he has gone somewhere outside. Like you, not dressed. Fortunate for him, it is warm.”

“Appreciate it,” Jeremiah managed, out the door again before she could ask where he was going.

When the garage and the garden both proved empty, Jeremiah stared at the brick path leading from the back gate down toward the trees lining the river. Still barefoot, squinting into the late-morning light, he followed it.

The mausoleum wasn’t far, maybe ten yards beyond the tree-line. He’d been able to tell from one of the upstairs windows that there was a clearing, which was where he now stood.

Bruce sat in the grass with his knees drawn up, book abandoned, turning at Jeremiah’s approach.

“Thought you’d sleep till noon,” he said sheepishly. “Jet-lag’s been hitting you harder.”

Jeremiah sat down beside him, near enough that their shoulders touched. “Should I stay?”

Bruce nodded, tipping into Jeremiah’s side. “Feels like summer. I sometimes read here.”

Studying the pale, lichen-patched edifice before them, Jeremiah pondered what to say.

“How many generations?” he asked, realizing how present-focused his research had been.

“Three or four,” Bruce said. “Anyone from before the late eighteenth century is elsewhere.”

Unbelievable, that a person could know so much about where they came from. Miraculous, even. Jeremiah didn’t even know who his grandparents were, much less anyone earlier.

“Only ashes are interred here,” Bruce went on. “If any of my mother’s family had been alive, they might have objected—but she wanted to be with my father, even in defiance of custom.” He leaned against Jeremiah’s shoulder. “It’s why I thought of them in Père Lachaise. What you said about company mattering more.”

Jeremiah slid an arm around him. He felt empty, wholly untethered save for Bruce’s warmth.

“I don’t feel guilt for what I did to win your heart, _but_ —regret and embarrassment, yes.”

“Regret how?” Bruce asked, regarding him sadly. “Is being with me more grief than it’s worth?”

“No,” Jeremiah said vehemently, turning his body so that Bruce could curl into him. “Never.”

“We had a talk like this one before reunification,” Bruce said, “only our roles were reversed.”

Jeremiah pressed a kiss to the scar on Bruce’s cheek, toppling them sidelong in the cool grass.

“Regret in the sense that I misjudged the extent of what I needed to do,” he clarified. “Disappointment in myself. I raised the wrong ghosts, and then, by the time I raised the right one, it was almost too late.”

Bruce brushed his fingertips along Jeremiah’s right cheekbone, tracing the memory of a bruise.

“Raising that ghost cost you too much,” he said quietly, “and it’s my fault you went and did it.”

“That’s one way of seeing it,” Jeremiah replied, “whereas I believe the way out was through.”

After a few moments’ silence in which they did nothing but trade kisses, Bruce went still.

“Do you remember that night,” he said, “when you asked me if you were changing again?”

Jeremiah nodded gravely. “I remember everything that’s happened, from then until now.”

Rearranging them so that Jeremiah was on his back, Bruce braced himself on one elbow.

“What regrets we have, we share,” he said, leaning over him. “Like everything else.”

Jeremiah frowned until Bruce pressed their foreheads together. “What does that…”

“It means we both changed,” Bruce replied, “and we’ll keep changing. I want…” He drew in his breath, winding his fingers in Jeremiah’s robe. “You were right the last time we fought. This _was_ all a beginning. And then, after the stand-off, you asked me not to forget about our happy ending. I won’t, not with you beside me to help frame the story.”

Closing his eyes until the stinging in them passed, Jeremiah set his fingers against Bruce’s lips.

“Do you know, once upon a time, I was ready to tell you that your life without me was a joke?”

Bruce shrugged, kissing Jeremiah’s fingertips. “Who’s to say you wouldn’t have been right?”

“That’s just it,” Jeremiah sighed, marveling at the irony. “I had it the wrong way around.”

“Am I a fitting enough punch-line?” Bruce asked, not even trying to keep a straight face.

“Dear heart,” Jeremiah replied, grinning up at him so hard it hurt, “you make me laugh.”


End file.
